Santa Fe Dead (17 page)

44

EAGLE PICKED UP Susannah at the hospital and drove her to her house to pick up some clothes. Her shoulder-length hair covered the bandage on the back of her head. “Are you in pain?” he asked.

“No, they gave me something for it, but I haven’t had to take it. I have a nice little bald spot on the back of my head, though.”

“Susannah, I’m so sorry I let you stay here alone.” They pulled into her driveway and went into the house.

“Ed, you don’t need to say that to me again. It’s not your fault; it’s
her
fault.” She walked into her bedroom and looked at the window. “Where’s the bullet hole?”

“I had the windowpane replaced.”

“Thank you, Ed, that was very thoughtful.” She filled a large suitcase with clothes and cosmetics, then a smaller case. “I think that’s it. Let’s get out of here.”

Eagle put the bags into his trunk and started the car. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is over,” he said.

“And when will it be over? Do you know?”

“Soon,” Eagle said.

DON WELLS CALLED Ed Eagle.

“Good morning, Don,” Eagle said.

“Ed, what’s going on with the investigation? When are they going to clear me?”

“I don’t want to ask Bob Martínez about that, Don; he’ll think we’re getting nervous, and we don’t want that. I’m sure they’re still investigating, but when their leads don’t turn up anything, they’ll drop it.”

“Will they send me a letter clearing me?”

“I think the best we can hope for is that they’ll release a statement to the press, saying that you’re no longer a suspect.”

“When?”

“Don, it might be a few days; it might be a few weeks. If I don’t hear from them in, say, a month, I’ll get somebody from the press to call and interview Martínez. That will give him an opportunity to clear you.”

“Should I proceed to probate with my wife’s will?”

“Of course. Do anything you’d normally do in the circumstances.”

“What sort of leads do you think they’re following?”

“Well, we know they’re looking for anyone you might have hired to do the job. Detective Reese has already interviewed your two stuntmen, and I’m sure he’s checked their alibis.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know you want to be out from under this, Don, but you’re just going to have to be patient.”

“All right, Ed. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Of course I will. Goodbye.”

EAGLE HUNG UP. He was beginning to think that Don Wells was awfully nervous for an innocent man.

ALEX REESE WAS momentarily stumped. He’d checked out all his leads; now he was waiting for a break. Then he remembered something he hadn’t checked out. He called a friend of his at the NYPD.

“Hi, Alex. How you doin’?”

“Pretty good, Ralph. Could you check something out for me on your computer?”

“Sure thing.”

“There was a street killing in Manhattan, a mugging gone wrong, some years back. I’d like to speak to the lead detective on the case.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

Reese consulted his notes. “William John Burke.”

“Hang on.”

Reese heard the sound of computer keys tapping.

“Got it,” Ralph said. “It’s still open. The lead guy was a detective in the One-Nine named Dino Bacchetti. I know him. He’s a lieutenant now, runs the detective squad over there. Here’s his number.”

Reese wrote down the number. “Thanks, Ralph. I appreciate it.” Reese dialed the Nineteenth Precinct.

“Bacchetti,” the man said.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti, my name is Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe, New Mexico, P.D.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You worked a homicide some years ago. Victim was one William John Burke. You remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember. I was never able to clear it. It looked like a mugging, but the guy had a rich wife, and that always interests me.”

“Do you remember the name Donald Wells, in connection with that case?”

“Yeah, I do. He was a friend of the couple—more of an acquaintance, really. He had been at a dinner party with the two of them the night before Burke was killed. I talked to him, but he had a solid alibi, and he struck me as uninvolved. Until . . .”

“Until what?”

“A year later—no more than that, a year and a half, maybe—I saw Mrs. Burke and Donald Wells at a restaurant together, looking very interested in each other. Not long after that, I saw in the papers that they had gotten married.”

“Did you interview him again?”

“No. I went over my notes, and, like I said, he had a solid alibi. He was at some sort of awards ceremony at a table of eight. I couldn’t find any substantive reason to talk to him again.”

“Did he seem like the kind of guy who might have the connections to hire somebody to mug or murder Burke?”

“I thought of that at the time, but no, he didn’t seem like that kind of guy, and none of his acquaintances I talked to thought so, either. They were a pretty straight crowd. But you never know, do you? There might be somebody in anybody’s past who would commit murder for enough money.”

“That’s right. You never know.”

“You looking at Wells for something else?”

“Yeah, somebody murdered his wife and stepson.”

“The same one? The rich one?”

“Same one.”

“Ahhhhh,” Bacchetti breathed. “Now,
that’s
interesting.”

“And this time I’ve found a possible hit man—two of them, in fact.”

“Would you do me a favor and find out how long he’s known these two guys?” Bacchetti asked.

“Not long enough to go back to your case. They’re both stuntmen at Centurion Studios, and, as far as I can tell, he hasn’t known them for more than four years.”

“Tell you what, Alex. I’ll put a couple of men on the Burke homicide. You never know what they might come up with.”

“Thanks a lot, Dino.” Reese hung up wishing he had some way to help Bacchetti tie Wells to the Burke killing, too.

45

BOB MARTÍNEZ HAD just returned to his office from court when his secretary buzzed him. “Yes?”

“Mr. Martínez, there’s a man on the phone named Jason Bloomfield, who says he’s the executive director of the Worth Foundation. Will you speak to him?”

“Worth Foundation? Is that the one that Donna Wells’s will mentions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put him on.”

“Mr. Martínez?”

“Yes, Mr. Bloomfield, what can I do for you?”

“You’re aware that I run the Worth Foundation?”

“Yes, my secretary just told me.”

“I’d like to talk with you about the investigation into the murders of Donna Worth Wells and her son.”

“Well, I can confirm that we’re investigating that case, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, until our investigation is complete.”

“Let me explain my problem, then you can tell me if you can help.”

“All right, Mr. Bloomfield, go ahead.”

“I believe you’ve seen a copy of Mrs. Wells’s will.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you know that the foundation is one of her beneficiaries.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that, since both she and her son are dead, Donald Wells becomes the principal beneficiary.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You would also know that, should Mr. Wells be found responsible for his wife and stepson’s deaths, he would not be able to inherit, and the foundation would become the principal beneficiary?”

“In addition to being district attorney, I’m an attorney, Mr. Bloomfield.”

“Can you tell me whether Donald Wells is a suspect in the murders?”

Martínez didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, he was careful. “Mr. Bloomfield, I expect that you’ve seen enough TV shows to know that in any homicide of a female, the first suspect is usually the husband or boyfriend.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And that’s the case, even when hundreds of millions of dollars are not at stake?”

“I can understand that.”

“Then I think you can draw your own conclusions about Mr. Wells’s status in the investigation.”

“I need just a little more than that, Mr. Martínez. If I know that Mr. Wells is a suspect, then, when he files for probate, I can ask the judge to stop any further action, until it’s clear whether Mr. Wells is implicated in the homicides.”

“That’s a civil matter, Mr. Bloomfield, and thus outside the jurisdiction of this office.”

“Let me put it another way, Mr. Martínez: It’s my understanding from watching all those TV shows, that putting pressure on a suspect is sometimes an investigative technique used by the police and the district attorney.”

Martínez thought about that. “All right, Mr. Bloomfield, you can tell a judge that I said that Donald Wells is a suspect—no, the
only
suspect—in the homicides of his wife and stepson.”

“Would you give me that in writing?”

“You can refer the judge to me for confirmation.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Martínez.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Bloomfield.”

DONALD WELLS WAS at his desk when he got a phone call from an old friend in New York.

“Don, this is Edgar Fields.”

“Hello, Edgar, long time. How are you?”

“Very well, thanks. Don, I just wanted to tell you that I had a visit this morning from two police detectives investigating the death of John Burke.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and Bessie Willoughby had a visit from the same two detectives last evening.”

“Yes?”

“Don, you will remember that Bessie and I were two of the seven people who established your whereabouts the evening of Burke’s murder.”

“Yes, Edgar, I remember.”

“Well, it seems that the police have reopened the case and are reinterviewing everybody at that table.”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know, Don.”

"I wouldn’t worry about it, Edgar; after all I
was
at that table that evening.”

“Except for about half an hour or forty-five minutes, when you went out for a smoke.”

“I don’t remember that, Edgar.”

“I do, and so does Bessie. I’m sure the others do, too.”

“Did you mention that to the detectives?”

“They specifically asked both of us if you left the table for more than five minutes during the evening. I had to tell them that. They also asked me if you smoke. I told them I didn’t know, I assumed so.”

“Well, that’s all right, Edgar; I have nothing to fear in all this, so there’s no need to worry.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Don. I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Edgar.” Wells hung up. Why the hell would they be reopening that investigation? He didn’t like this at all.

His secretary buzzed him again. “Your lawyer, Marvin Wilson, is on line one.”

Wells picked up the phone. “Yes, Marvin?”

“Don, I just got served with some papers. The Worth Foundation has filed a petition with the probate court to stop probate of Donna’s estate.”

Wells was alarmed. “On what grounds, Marvin?”

“On the grounds that the Santa Fe district attorney says that you’re the only suspect in the murders.”

“That’s preposterous!” Wells said.

“Of course it is, Don, but I now have to appear at a hearing to argue against their petition.”

“Well, sure, go ahead.”

“Don, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not going to look good in the press if a judge stops probate because you’re the only suspect in a double homicide.”

“Well, I guess not. What do you recommend?”

“I think it would be better if I called the foundation’s attorney and agreed to withdraw our petition for probate, if they will withdraw their petition. We can probably deal with this on a handshake.”

“How long before we can file for probate, Marvin?”

“It will depend on the Santa Fe district attorney’s actions in the case. If he gets you indicted or if you’re arrested, then we couldn’t file until you’re cleared or tried and found not guilty.”

“What can we do in the meantime to resolve this?”

“Well, after some time has passed, we can have your Santa Fe attorney press the D.A. for some sort of statement of nonculpability that would satisfy the probate judge.”

“How much time?”

“A few months, at least.”

“And you feel strongly that this is our best course of action?”

“I do. And if word of this gets leaked to the press, you can take the position that you have no objection to waiting for probate, and you’re anxious to see the case resolved.”

“All right, go ahead and call their attorney.” Wells hung up, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had a big project in preproduction, and he had planned to finance it himself, once the will was probated. Now that had to come to a screeching halt, and he was left holding the bag for the preproduction costs. He would have to go to the studio for the money.

Wells reviewed his prospects. There were four people out there who could hurt him, if too much pressure were put on them: Jack Cato, Grif Edwards, Soledad Rivera and, of course, Tina. He was going to have to find a way to see that none of them cracked.

46

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE was about to leave his office for lunch when his phone rang, and he picked it up. “Detective Reese.”

“Detective Reese, this is Luisa, you remember?”

“Give me a hint.”

“Out at the airport? Santa Fe Jet?”

“Oh, of course, Luisa. What’s up?”

“Well, you gave me your card and asked me to call you if I thought of anything else?”

“Yes, I did. Have you thought of something?”

“Not exactly, but I know where I saw that Timmons guy from Austin.”

“Where?”

“Driving a stagecoach.”

“A stagecoach?”

“In a movie. I remember that I knew the movie was made in Santa Fe, because I could see the Jemez Mountains in the background. I can see the Jemez from my mother’s house.”

Reese drew a quick breath. “Do you remember the name of the movie, Luisa?”

“No, it was several weeks ago, and it was on TV, on one of the cable channels, because there weren’t any commercials.”

“Thank you, Luisa,” Reese said, “you’ve been a big help, and I appreciate it.” He hung up and ran down the hall, where three other detectives were leaving for lunch. “Hang on, everybody, we’re ordering in, on me.”

“What’s up, Alex?” one of the detectives asked.

“We’re going to the movies. Hal, get those DVDs of the Donald Wells productions. You can draw straws for this, but I want somebody sitting there with a remote control on fast forward. Stop when you see a stagecoach. I’m looking for a stagecoach driver with a handlebar moustache and a big hat. When you find it, get a very good print made from the best frame, then go to the credits and look for the name, Jack Cato. He should be the driver.”

Everybody shuffled into the conference room, where a TV set was set up. Reese was elated. He called the D.A. with the news.

BOB MARTÍNEZ WAS pleased. “What about the airplane you think he used?”

“It’s registered to a plastic surgeon from L.A.; he hasn’t returned my calls yet.”

“Keep on him.”

JACK CATO HAD finished his day’s shooting, which involved being dragged behind a horse for four takes. He went back to the livery stable to shower in the rough bathroom there, then he put on some clean clothes and went back to his little office. He retrieved an item he had bought and tore the plastic wrapping off, then inserted batteries. He tried it; it worked. Then he put it back into the drawer. He wanted to get Mrs. Keeler on tape.

DON WELLS DROVE by the stable and saw Cato’s truck still there. He pulled up to the building and stopped. There was a light on in the office. He got out of the car and walked inside. Cato was sitting at the desk, writing checks, and he looked up. “Hey, Don.”

Wells sat down.

“I’m just paying some bills; today was payday.”

“Go ahead, Jack. I’ll wait.”

Cato wrote two more checks and sealed them into envelopes. “Okay, I’m done. What’s up?”

“I want you to take a little trip, Jack.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t much care, but out of the country. You like Mexico, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not sure I can afford a vacation right now.”

Wells tossed some bundles of money on the desk. “That’ll give you a running start. It’s twenty-five grand. With what you’ve got saved, you should be able to live well down there.”

“How long do I need to be gone, Don?”

“I think you should look at this as a permanent change of address.”

“But what about my job?”

“That’s going to have to go. I’ll be shooting in Mexico from time to time; you can work then, and I’ll put you in speaking parts. Also, I’ll make some calls to a couple of people I know in the film business down there. You should be able to make a good living playing gringos in Mexican pictures. You’ll live a lot better there than here.”

Cato opened a desk drawer and put the paid bills inside, then he pressed a button on his new purchase and left the drawer open. “Don, what’s going on? Why do you want me to leave the country?”

“Because I have a feeling the Santa Fe police are on to you.”

“You mean on to
you
, don’t you?”

“It’s the same thing, Jack. If one of us goes down, we all go down. You see that, don’t you?”

“Don, I think if we just hang tight, everything will be fine.”

“If it gets to be fine, I’ll let you know,” Wells said. “Then you can come back. But in the meantime, we have problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“I’ll take care of Tina and Soledad, send them away for a while, but then there’s Grif Edwards.”

“You don’t have to worry about Grif, Don. I mean, he’s not the smartest guy in the world, but he’ll stand up.”

“Let me describe a situation, Jack, and you tell me what you think about it. You’re Grif Edwards, and you get arrested. The cops tell you they’ve got evidence that puts you in my house in Santa Fe at the time of the murders; they tell you that they’ll go easy on you if you’ll implicate others, maybe even tell you you’ll walk if you turn state’s evidence. You’re Grif Edwards; what would you do?”

“Okay, I get the point. What would make you feel more comfortable, Don?”

“Get Edwards to meet you in Mexico; see that he doesn’t come back.”

“You know, Don, if I stay at Centurion, I can retire with a pension in a few years.”

“Here’s what I’ll do, Jack: Right now, I can’t probate my wife’s will, because I’m still a suspect. But with the four of you unavailable to the police, I’ll be cleared in a few weeks or months. Once that happens, and her estate is settled, every year, the first week in January, I’ll send you twenty-five grand in cash. That’s a lot of money in Mexico, Jack, and it’s as much as you’d get from a pension. A buck goes a long way down there.”

“How long will you send the money?”

“For as long as we both shall live,” Wells said. “If I die, you’ll have to go to work. If you die, well, you won’t need the money. Fair enough?”

“Well . . .”

“Let me mention one other thing, Jack: If you stay in L.A., or anywhere else the cops can find and extradite you, you’re looking at life with no parole, at a minimum. And in New Mexico, they still have the death penalty.”

Cato sighed. “Okay, Don. When I finish this picture, I’ll go.”

“You finish the picture tomorrow, Jack. I want you to go home now, pack up your stuff and load your truck. Throw away what you can’t take with you. Tell the neighbors you’ve got a job back east, or you inherited some money. Write your landlord a letter; pay him anything you owe him. Tomorrow, when the picture wraps, don’t go back to your house. Give the employment office your resignation, leave the studio and don’t be seen in this country again. We’ve both got untraceable cell phones. If you have to communicate with me, do it that way. Don’t leave any messages. If I don’t answer, try me later, late at night.”

“That’s pretty final, Don.”

“It can get a lot more final, Jack.” Wells shook his hand, went back to his car and drove home to Malibu. He hoped to God that Cato had taken him seriously, because if he hadn’t, Cato was going to have to go, and Don Wells was going to have to see to it himself.

JACK CATO SAT at his desk and thought it through. He called the motor pool, and Grif Edwards answered.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“How you doin’?”

“Pretty good. I hear we’ve been cleared on that thing.”

“Yeah? That’s great news. How do you know?”

“Let’s don’t talk about it on the phone. Are you working late?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a ring job on a ’38 Ford, and I need to finish it tonight. I should be done by ten, ten thirty.”

“When you finish, come over to the stable. I’ll tell you what’s going on. There’s going to be more money, too.”

“See you around ten.”

Jack got his pry bar and went out to the privy behind the barn. He got the floor up, brushed back the dirt and opened the safe. He removed all the money and put it into a small, plastic trash bag, then locked the safe, rearranged the dirt and hammered down the floorboards.

He returned to the stable and went through his desk drawers to see if there was anything he wanted to keep. He stuffed a few things into the trash bag, then he typed out a letter of resignation, saying he had gotten a better job offer and was leaving Centurion immediately.

He got into his truck and left by the main gate, taking particular care that the guard recognized him. He drove around the studio property to the back-lot gate and let himself in with his key, then returned and parked the truck in the stable, out of sight.

He put on a pair of thin driving gloves and typed two letters. He put one into an envelope but didn’t seal it, then put it into his inside coat pocket. He put the other letter, the money from the privy and the small tape recorder in a lockbox welded to the underside of his truck, then he wiped the typewriter clean of any of his old fingerprints that might remain.

Around ten o’clock, Grif Edwards showed up. “Hey, Jack,” he said.

“C’mere a second and try out this typewriter.” He handed Grif a sheet of paper.

Grif put the paper into the machine and typed, Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s okay.”

“You want it? I’ll give it to you.”

“Thanks. I guess I can use it.” Edwards picked up the typewriter and put it into his car, then came back. “Why are you getting rid of it?”

“Because I’m moving to Mexico. You want to go with me?”

“Why are you moving down there?”

“Because Don Wells told me if I don’t, I’m going to end up in prison.”

“Holy shit! I thought you said we were in the clear.”

“I thought we were, until Don came by here after I called you and told me the cops were on to me. That means you, too.”

“Jesus, Jack, I thought our alibis were airtight.”

“Something broke along the way. I don’t know what.”

“So you’re going to Mexico?”

“Tomorrow after work. I’m gonna go home tonight and load up my truck. You want to go?”

Edwards shook his head. “I don’t know, Jack.”

“Well, you let me know tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to give you a present.”

“What’s that?”

“Come on, I’ll show you. You’re gonna like it.”

The two men got into Edwards’s car and drove over to the armory. Cato let them in and led Edwards to the little office, where he opened the steel gun cabinet. He picked up a Colt Officer’s .45, shoved a clip into it and racked the slide. He picked up a soft cloth on the desk, wiped the gun down, picked it up with the cloth and handed it to Edwards. “Remember this? You always liked it.”

“Oh, yeah, I used it in that cop thing we did, remember?”

“It’s yours, now. They’ll never have any idea where it went.”

Edwards hefted the gun in his hand and aimed it.

“Let me show you something about this weapon,” Cato said, taking it from him. Quickly, he held the gun, wrapped in the cloth, an inch from Edwards’s temple and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed on the wall behind him, and the force knocked him to the floor.

Cato picked up Edwards’s right hand and put some more of his prints on the weapon, and on the letter and envelope from his pocket, then he put the armory key into Edwards’s pocket. Still wearing his driving gloves, Cato took the typewriter from the backseat of Edwards’s car, then walked back to the stable, showered again and rolled his clothes into a tight wad. He put on clean clothes, collected the remaining stationery and envelopes in his desk drawer, then got into his truck and drove to the back-lot gate and let himself out, chaining it shut again.

He drove to Edwards’s house, found the key under the flowerpot and let himself in. He put the stationery into a drawer in Edwards’s desk, then set the typewriter on the desktop. He removed the envelope from his pocket and leaned it against the telephone on the desk.

He let himself out, then, on the way home, he ditched his blood-spattered clothes in a street trash basket.